


Compromise Where Our Bodies Start

by pangodillO



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bodyswap, Dysphoria, I will fight you for nonbinary Cecil, Multiple Orgasms, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans Character, all Carloses are trans Carloses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:39:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pangodillO/pseuds/pangodillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Cecil," he says, in Cecil's voice, sitting up and looking down at—himself, at his own head resting on his pillow.  "Cecil, wake up!" he repeats, praying that it is in fact Cecil inhabiting his body.  What if it's—oh fuck, what if it's someone <i>else</i>?  The violation of having anyone but Cecil, anyone but <i>himself</i> in control of his body...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromise Where Our Bodies Start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shayvaalski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/gifts).



> This is a gift for Teddy for all kinds of reasons. I will list a few of them now:
> 
>   * They are a generally excellent person and I am so very fond of them
>   * [The first Night Vale fic I ever read was by them](http://archiveofourown.org/works/890646), so it makes sense for the first Night Vale fic I ever post to be for them
>   * They are just so fantastic though and I care about them so much
>   * They have a concussion and I would like them to feel better now, and if I cannot make them feel better then I would like to make them feel happy
>   * Also there's a secret reason that y'all probably won't notice, but they will and it will please them
>   * Did I mention that they are so cool and I like them a lot? That.
> 

> 
> So I have worked hard on this fic, and I worry about it still, but it is time now to cling tight to imperfection, to my imperfection, and let it out into the world anyway. I am proud of it. I am also terrified.
> 
> [Sandy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrosand), my hero, my saviour, a grand Code-Wizard, helped me make the text messages look how I wanted them because I am _helpless_ at CSS and AO3 wasn't accepting my HTML. Thank you, Sandy, so much. And thanks to the folks in #antidiogenes for the grammar nitpicks and to [Dee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/draloreshimare) in particular for consoling me about my narrative insecurities. I am still terrified! But I am posting, and that's all sier fault.
> 
> *Joseph Fink voice* Thanks.
> 
> (And to those who subscribed to me for my Sherlock fic: if you're not interested in Night Vale, you will be disappointed by everything I have to offer you from now on. No hard feelings if you decide to leave. I wish you well.)

  
**I tried to compromise where our bodies start,**  
 **And now I can't tell the two of us apart.**

**[-"Safe as Houses" by Driftless Pony Club](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAXDtJu3drg) **

Carlos wakes up wrapped around his boyfriend's back, morning wood nudging against their hip. He hums and presses his face into Cecil's neck...

and meets hair. Coarse and wavy hair spilled loose over the pillow, _not_ sleek black hair pulled into a snug plait. And for that matter, why is he the big spoon? Cecil hates being little spoon, says it makes them feel trapped, like they can't breathe.

And since when is his dick big enough to make noticeable morning wood?

"Cecil," he says, in Cecil's voice, sitting up and looking down at—himself, at his own head resting on his pillow. "Cecil, wake up!" he repeats, praying that it is in fact Cecil inhabiting his body. What if it's—oh fuck, what if it's someone _else_? The violation of having anyone but Cecil, anyone but _himself_ in control of his body...

His body stretches, arms reaching up and toes pointing down, just the way Cecil does every morning when they wake—a familiar movement made unfamiliar by the flesh it's dressed in. "Carlos...?"

"I'm in your body, Cecil," Carlos says, trying not to hyperventilate. "I'm in your _body_ , you're in my body, Cecil, how did this _happen_ —" His voice— _Cecil's_ voice swings wildly upward, and some calm portion of his mind reflects that hearing Cecil having a panic attack is not what he needs in the middle of a panic attack.

Cecil finally opens their eyes—opens _Carlos'_ eyes, and looks down at the body they're occupying. "Oh," they say, and then— " _Oh_. Yes. That is indeed the case." They sit up and look at Carlos' hands, turning them over and over and flexing the fingers.

"How can you be so calm?" Carlos demands, although in truth seeing himself so calm is helping.

"I am not," Cecil says. "I am... I am not. Calm." They don't look at Carlos. They haven't, not since they woke up. "There's a reason I keep the mirrors covered—not that I remember what that reason is, exactly, but there _is_ one, and I haven't seen my own face in—in decades, in over twenty years."

"That's okay," Carlos blurts. "I mean—I'm sorry, I don't mean to belittle your concerns! But it should be okay, right? It's not your face, it's the mirrors, right?"

"It might be my face," Cecil says. "I can drive just fine, as long as I can't see myself in the rearview."

"What about, like, your reflection in windows and stuff? I've seen your reflection in windows before, and nothing happened." Carlos reaches out, and catches up short at the sight of his hand—much larger and broader than it should be, scars in different places, and two shades too pale. "Can I touch you, is that all right...?"

"Please," Cecil says, and leans toward him. 

Carlos tangles his-Cecil's fingers into Cecil's-his hair, and understands why Cecil loves it so much; the texture on this skin is amazing, somehow better than when he touches with his own hands.

"I can't go all day without looking at—at you," Cecil finally says. "Or however long this is going to last. If the world is going to end, we might as well get it over with, right?"

"I don't think the world is going to end, Cecil." Carlos grips Cecil's hand and squeezes. Cecil nods, and shuts their eyes, and turns their face up toward Carlos.

It's the first clear look Carlos has had at his own face in... a while. (He learned to shave the way Cecil does, by touch, because covering and uncovering the mirrors was too much hassle... and this way they can stand in the bathroom and shave together, pointing out each others' missed spots.) Something seems wrong about it, off—that stray curl that always plagues his mornings is on the wrong side—then he realizes, he's seeing himself as in a photograph, not a mirror.

Cecil finally opens their, Carlos', eyes.

The world does not end.

Carlos holds their gaze for a long minute, silent. He's fascinated by the expression on his face—it _looks_ like it belongs on Cecil's face. Does he always look that way when he's feeling apprehensive, or is that Cecil's influence?

Finally, Cecil nods. "Okay," they say, tentatively. "The world does not seem to have ended. But let's neither of us look in any mirrors today, okay? Just in case."

"Sure," Carlos says. "The end of the world would put a damper on our weekend plans." Watching the corner of his own mouth lift isn't nearly as satisfying as watching the same happen on Cecil's face. "Okay, so... no mirrors today. Mutual panic attacks averted. What now?"

Cecil shrugs. "Sex is traditional... though I think in this case we could be forgiven for bucking tradition."

Carlos' dick twitches at the thought—but, no. _Cecil's_ dick. And sure, he's laid hands and mouth and ass on this dick before, but this is different. Of course he wants to know what it would feel like, to have the anatomy he's always felt he lacked, but—not like this, not _Cecil's_. It's a violation. "Do you know why this happened?"

"No one ever knows why they're chosen for Couples Bodyswap." Cecil groans and lays their head—Carlos' head in their, in Carlos' hands. "I'm sorry, Carlos. It'll wear off in a day or so."

"Why are you sorry? You haven't done anything wrong. This isn't your fault."

"I'm _in_ your _body_. You don't want me to touch you and I can't _not_. I can't avoid feeling... it."

 _It._ That portion of Carlos' anatomy which, much like the shape in Mission Grove Park, he never acknowledges or speaks about. "Oh. No, it's okay." Carlos shifts closer and wraps an arm around the shoulders Cecil is currently inhabiting. "I mean... No, it's not okay, but it's not—I'm not upset. And I don't blame you. And I hope you don't blame me—I'm in your body, too."

"Oh!" Cecil straightens, voice brightening. "You're in my body! Carlos, you can experience my penis!"

"I experience your penis all the time," Carlos leers. More seriously, he adds, "You don't think it'd be... weird? I mean, I can't deny that I'm curious. But... I never imagined it like this. It's not _my_ dick."

"No," Cecil says. "Not at all weird. I _want_ you to. You should have that, while you can."

Carlos goes still. "So should you," he says, softly. "I know you've always wanted to experience a—to experience..." He can't even say the word, not about his own body—even if he's not the one inhabiting said body.

"No," Cecil says. They don't sound like they mean it; they sound like it hurts them to say. "No, it's—it's your body, I'm not going to do anything with it you wouldn't."

"That's hardly fair to you," Carlos points out.

Cecil gives him a sad little smile. "It's not about fair. It's about consent."

Carlos can't say anything to that. He wants to lean on Cecil, wants their broad shoulders framing his and their arms snug around him—but those shoulders are _his_ shoulders, at least for today. So instead he gathers Cecil up the way he wants to be gathered up, and presses his nose into their neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, in Cecil's voice. "I want to let you have this, I want to be okay with it."

"It's fine," Cecil says. It's not fine; Carlos can read his own voice. "Let's get up for breakfast? You're going to get a wicked headache soon if you don't have some coffee."

 

"Oh my God."

" _Carlos_."

"Sorry. _Merciful Heavens_. Is this what coffee tastes like to you? It's amazing."

Cecil lifts one shoulder. "I guess? Why, what does it taste like to you?"

Carlos offers them the cup, as reluctant as he is to let it go. They take it, and take a deep drink—

—and spit it out all over the table. "That's _awful_!"

"I keep telling you, coffee is terrible!" Carlos laughs and takes the mug back. His hands know how to handle it; he'd expected to be clumsy in this body, taller and broader than the one he's used to, but it obeys him with ease. Muscle memory, perhaps—but muscle memory is a misnomer; it occurs in the brain.

Well. Perceptions of selfhood occur in the brain, too. Have their brains been switched somehow? Carlos has all his own memories, and his thoughts feel like his own thoughts—and he's analyzing in the way that he usually analyzes things. He sips his coffee (it's _amazing_ ) and says, "What's your blood type?"

"O-neg. The City Council is adamant that I donate as often as possible. The best bloodstones are O-neg; no interference, you know."

Carlos winces. He's A-pos; if their brains _have_ been swapped, Cecil's body should be rejecting his brain by now in a violent immune reaction that would probably kill him—kill his brain and Cecil's body, and vice-versa when the switch back occurred. "We should go down to the lab today. I'd like to get a couple of brain scans—it's too bad I don't have a baseline to compare them to. Hmm, I wonder if Night Vale General would let us in for MRIs..."

"We can do that before the show," Cecil says. "Unfortunately it takes a soul sacrifice to get access to the MRI machine, and I don't have any spare souls lying around."

"The show? Do you have a show today? Cecil, I can't do the show, there's no way I could do what you do."

"Of course not." Cecil cocks their head at him. "Why would you? I'll do the show, there's nothing stopping me. Unless—You've been on air before; you're not shy about that, are you?"

"Oh—no, I'm not. Yeah, okay." He laughs, and it doesn't sound like himself or like Cecil. "I trust you not to do anything particularly embarrassing with my voice."

 

The scans go easily enough. Carlos does Cecil's first, explaining everything as he goes, then snags Rochelle away from her microscope to take his scan.

He drives Cecil down to the station, with some awkward repositioning of the mirrors so that neither of them can see themselves or each other; even then, Cecil spends the entire drive with their eyes stubbornly on their knees. On Carlos' knees, and Carlos' hands, folded into Carlos' lap.

"It feels strange to let you go," he says as the car pulls up in front of NVCR. "I feel like we should be staying close together. I've never been, you know, away from my body before."

"I'll take good care of it," Cecil promises. They lean in for a kiss, and Carlos gives it unthinkingly—and then has to wonder if that's Cecil's body responding to the sight of Carlos' upturned face, or himself, responding to the request implied by Cecil's movement.

"I know you will. Safe recording today, Cecil."

Cecil grins as they slide out of the car. "And safe sciencing to you, my lovely Carlos. See you tonight."

"See you tonight," Carlos echoes. He waits where he is, watching Cecil ascend the station steps and bleed on the doors for entry. Not until they're out of sight does he return to the lab.

 

It's nice to have a job where he can make his own hours, where he can spend most mornings at home with Cecil and then listen to their show while he works in the lab. It means spending a lot of evenings at work, but it's not as though Carlos ever spent evenings at home anyway. Most of the team keep roughly the same hours he does; he runs a fairly casual lab. Rochelle, a staunch morning person, is the exception, and still the only other person in the lab when Carlos gets back. 

"Welcome back, boss," she says, not looking up from her microscope as he enters.

"What's on the schedule today?" It's half serious, half running gag; they do usually _have_ a plan of attack on any given day, but Night Vale derails them often enough that the plans are almost a formality.

"I'm finishing up the processing of these samples," she says. "When Dave and Brad get in, we're going out to the Whispering Forest to gather more, and maybe see if the forest will tell us which trees used to be Night Vale residents. You, I think, will be trying to get to the bottom of the bodyswap problem—is it a problem?"

"It's not a problem," Carlos says, and adds, "That is, it's supposed to wear off on its own. If it's just the three of you, take the truck; it's got the safety harnesses and pulleys in the back. Don't grow any roots."

Rochelle rolls her eyes. "Sure, boss."

 

" _And now, dear listeners, let me take you all to: The Weather._ "

"Is it the weather already?" Carlos jolts out of his considerations. "What time is it?"

"It's early," Brad confirms. "Rochelle hasn't even left yet. You know, the lack of functioning timepieces makes it really hard to do certain kinds of science."

"Most kinds of science," Carlos agrees. "But Cecil has—Oh! _I_ have, today. It's four. It's four already?"

" _A working clock_ ," Brad finishes for him. " _Cecil_ has a working clock."

"I'll bring you one next time I visit home," Carlos says, rolling his eyes. He finds his phone in a lab coat pocket and shoots a text off to Cecil: Everything okay?

Your voice is tired, they answer.

Station Management won't mind?

Station Management will have to get over it. About to go back on. I love you.

I love you too. See you soon.

"What's the sitch?" Brad asks.

"No sitch," Carlos says. "I'm taking off; Cecil's going to be off-air in a minute. Listen, just, keep an eye on the data coming from the forest, okay, but don't go anywhere near it. Call me if anything comes up."

"Got it, boss. If I was boss I'd give you today off, too."

 

Cecil's already outside when Carlos pulls up; they climb in and lean over to kiss him. It's strange all over again, kissing Cecil's smile on his own mouth.

"Let's just go home," he says.

"Really? We don't have to. Don't you have important things going on at the lab?"

"They're not expecting me back. I just want to be at home with you, not..." There's not really anything to finish that sentence with.

Cecil nods, and says, "Don't take Grulla Drive, though. Remember, it's Tuesday."

Carlos avoids Grulla Drive and gets them home safely. He's tired, even a little cranky, and he's just done, a hundred percent done with how incredibly _weird_ it is to be in Cecil's body.

Cecil's quiet, too. Carlos tries not to let that worry him. They'd said their voice was tired— _his_ voice was tired. They disappear into the kitchen, and Carlos sinks down onto the sofa. He _aches_.

"This will help," Cecil says.

"What?"

"You've been on my feet all day," Cecil says. "My joints are probably aching pretty bad right now. This will help." They hold out a hand and drop two small white pills in Carlos' palm. "And this will help the headache. It's a little late for caffeine, but I'm guessing you didn't have any after breakfast."

"I didn't think to," Carlos agrees, and swallows the pills dry, chasing them with coffee. "I'm sorry about your joints. Is it going to be bad, tomorrow?"

"Not unmanageable." Cecil sits—more like perches at the edge of the couch; it looks strange on Carlos' body, too _Cecil_ to fit. "Give me your feet. They should be up, anyway."

Carlos does, feeling a flash of guilt as Cecil unlaces the shoes he's wearing and squeezes his—Cecil's—he's got to stop qualifying these possessives—arches. He hadn't even been aware of how much his feet hurt.

"Cecil, have you ever done this before?"

"Plenty of times. It's more satisfying when someone else does, though. Don't have to twist my feet up into my lap."

"What? No. This, the—the bodyswap." Carlos waves a hand between them. "Has this ever happened to you before?"

"No!" Cecil looks aghast. "No one ever gets to do this twice."

" _Never?_ " Carlos frowns. "So once this is over, it'll never happen again. We'll be stuck in our own bodies."

"We were always stuck in our own bodies," Cecil says. It's the sort of thing that should sound like Night Vale, like Cecil's own particular brand of weird and thought-provoking, but instead it just sounds like life. Maybe it's Carlos' voice. Maybe it's Carlos' dysphoria.

"Oh, Cecil." Carlos sits up, wraps Cecil up tight in arms that can envelop and protect. "I'm sorry. You've done so much for me, taking care of me and—and giving me permission, and I've been shit, I haven't, haven't done _anything_ for you. I'm sorry."

"Carlos..."

"No." He interrupts whatever lovely comforting thing Cecil was going to say. "No, I know you're disappointed. Come on, if this is your only chance then I want to make it happen for you."

" _Carlos..._ "

"Cecil." He draws back, stares into his own eyes and strokes his own cheek with Cecil's hand. He knows how much sincerity and meaning their face and voice can project, and he wills it to work for him now. "We manage sex all the time around our dysphorias. I can't promise you everything, but I can try."

Cecil shivers. "I... Your body likes to be talked to in that voice."

"My body has good taste." Carlos leans in and finds that space beneath his ear that's so sensitive; he breathes over it and Cecil hums. "Come to bed. Let's make today something to remember."

 

It's true that Carlos breathes easier in this body, but as he peels his binder off the chest that Cecil is currently wearing, he reflects that it's not because of its gender. It's _Cecil's_ body, and it has no more gender (and no less) than they do.

Cecil looks down at their—yes, _their_ breasts, those will be their breasts for as long as they wear that body. Carlos can't think of it as _his_ and still do for Cecil what they need.

Carlos spends a moment wishing he'd taken better care of them, just for this moment, just for Cecil—sad squished-looking things marked up by the imprints of the binder—and then Cecil lights up and cups them in their hands.

"Is this okay?" they ask, biting their lip and looking up at Carlos.

Carlos pulls them close and kisses them, hard. "It's _perfect_ ," he says, and he sounds just like Cecil. "You look so happy."

They don't waste any further time getting naked and cuddled under the sheets together. Carlos keeps his eyes closed and forgets what face Cecil is wearing as he touches, reminds himself that he's kissing Cecil's mouth and touching Cecil's body.

Cecil's breasts _are_ perfect, and Cecil makes the most beautiful noises when Carlos squeezes one—and then again, louder, when he slips entirely under the covers and latches his mouth onto a nipple. "Carlos," they gasp, and arch their back.

"Yeah," Carlos breathes, thumbing a breast up to press a kiss to the sweaty crease beneath it. "Yeah, just, let me touch you, let me make you feel good." He sucks; he lets his thumb slide over their nipple; he drags a hand down their belly and hesitates, palm hovering over their—his mind hitches over the vocabulary.

"Carlos, please." Cecil's hips shift, impatient—but side to side, letting Carlos be the one to close the gap. Carlos presses his hand back first, against that space which does not exist and which smears slickness over his palm. Cecil is _wet_ , and it's easy to gather up enough slick to ease the slide of his palm over their—clit, it's theirs now, it's a clit.

They whimper, a choked-off noise that wants to be more, and Carlos throws the sheet back off his head so he can look up and see them, see them wearing his face with eyes tight shut and hand pressed hard over lips and teeth.

"Don't," he says, and catches their hand, tugs it away. "It, it's your body, you should enjoy it—I want to hear you." He grinds his palm against them, circling, fingers pressed into the coarse curls of their pubic hair.

" _Iwantyoutofuckme_ ," Cecil gasps, and covers their face with their hands. "No, no, I'm sorry, that's too much, that's not..."

"What about..." Carlos slides a hand down the back of Cecil's thigh, over the curve of their ass; presses with a thumb to spread the cheeks a little.

"Oh!" Cecil's hands fall shyly away from their face. "Um, yes. Let's try that."

There are gloves and condoms and lube in the drawer, and it's only a moment before Carlos is nudging a slick finger against that tight ring of muscle. This is easy enough; he knows how he likes it, and it's not hard to replicate what Cecil's done to him before. Only—instead of sighing or moaning as he presses the first finger in, they grunt and clench their jaw.

"Okay, Cecil?"

Cecil shakes their head. "Your body does _not_ like this."

"I like it," Carlos says, but he pulls his finger free and strips the glove off inside-out. "That's... weird. That should have felt good."

"Maybe you like it for reasons other than the physical," Cecil suggests.

"Mind over matter," Carlos murmurs in agreement. It's true that he loves the filth of it, and the defiance—and it's true that it's uncomfortable to start with, but it _does_ feel good. "Let me go wash my hands, okay, and then we'll figure out what we want to do next."

When he comes back, Cecil's got one hand on their breast, idly squeezing, and the middle finger of the other in their mouth. The way they blush when they see him tells him exactly where that finger was a moment ago.

"It's okay," he says, and Cecil relaxes. 

"Actually, you think you taste terrible." They dip a finger back in and offer it to Carlos. "Want to see what I think?"

Carlos bends and takes the proffered finger into his mouth. It tastes—he doesn't know how to describe—all the same musk and bitterness is there, but it's _heavenly_ on Cecil's tongue. "I do not understand your taste buds," he says as he draws off. "Can I go down on you?"

" _Can_ you," Cecil repeats incredulously, throwing their arm over their face like a swooning heroine. " _Will_ you?"

So Carlos settles again between Cecil's thighs, considering how best to approach this. He knows what he likes, but that's obviously not a reliable guide, so he starts with what he thinks he can do: a kiss over their clit.

He knows his body. He just—look, he's had _really few_ opportunities to get face-to-face with this area. Like, none. And he knows his voice, but Cecil lets it slide up into a range Carlos never uses, into something high and clear and _sweet_. Mostly he keeps his eyes closed and doesn't think about who usually wears this body; right now it's Cecil's.

And it stops being about what he thinks he can stand to do, and starts being about _Cecil_ , as it should be. He sucks their clit and presses two fingers inside them to hear what kind of noise they might make, and it's amazing, it's _beautiful_ , and he curls his fingers and licks and licks and licks to try to find that noise again, and finds a hundred other noises that are just as amazing.

"Carlos," Cecil warns, breathless, reaching down.

Carlos reaches up, grabs their hand, doesn't slow down or stop or pull away. He lets them clench his fingers, both his hands squeezed as their clit pulses against his tongue and they make the _most gorgeous sound ever_ , high and strangled and whimpering.

He eases off, eases away as the tension starts to fade from Cecil's body. "Okay, Cecil?"

"Okay? Okay. Yeah, okay." Cecil laughs. "Wow. That was..."

"Neat?" Carlos suggests, scooting up to lie next to them.

Cecil laughs harder. " _Carlos_ ," they protest. "Are you ever going to let me live that down?"

"Understand, I'm not teasing you because you said 'neat'," Carlos says, and nuzzles into their hair. "I'm teasing you because you were _so embarrassed_ that you said 'neat'. I thought it was cute. I _still_ think it's cute. I'll stop if you want me to."

While he's not looking at their face—while he can still think of this as some other body than his own—he slides his hand down their chest and strokes lightly over a breast. Their breath catches. 

"You're not done yet, are you?" he murmurs, and tweaks a nipple.

"I, uh... I could be not done. Um... _oh_. I like that." Cecil fumbles, manages to get a hand on Carlos' hip. "I thought I could... return the favor, though."

The image of Cecil's mouth wrapped around his dick... But it wouldn't be, it would be his own mouth he'd be looking at. "Later, if you want to. Listen, Cecil..." He tucks his face more firmly into their neck, slides his hand down their ribcage to minimize the distractions to both of them. "That thing you wanted to try."

"It's okay, Carlos. This is—this is wonderful, this is more than enough."

"That's not—What I mean is. I, um, haven't. Ever." He can feel them shifting, trying to get a look at his expression, and he presses his head harder against their shoulder. "Please, I need... I need not to see my face right now. What I'm trying to say is... that, just now, two of your fingers—that's more than I've ever had—" He can't say _inside me_ ; it's too despicable that there is an 'inside him'.

"I don't understand," Cecil says. They sound worried, but they've stopped trying to look at Carlos.

"It might hurt," Carlos says. "I might—You. You might be too tight. And I can't... I don't think I could, if I looked at you. I'm sorry, I just... It can't be my body."

Cecil's silent. Their ribs—not Carlos' ribs, not Carlos' body at all, _theirs_ —are heaving, but even their breath makes no sound. Carlos begins to raise his head, concerned, and Cecil clutches him back down.

"You want to," they breathe. "You... _want_ to?"

"I'm scared," Carlos admits. "And I'm worried. But I want to make this good for you. I want to give you everything."

"It's not everything," Cecil points out. "I don't need it. What I need is for you to be comfortable, and calm, and happy." They let up the pressure on the back of Carlos' head and nudge him up; he rises onto one elbow and meets Cecil's eyes. "I don't want _anything_ you don't want. As has always and will always be the case."

"I can't help," Carlos says, and trips, and tries again. "Wanting. To do better, to be better. And you have to admit, it's not very _rational_ not to want—when it's not even me being penetrated. When I _do_ want to feel it as—feel it from this end."

" _Rational_ ," Cecil says, and Carlos can't help but laugh—that word in that disdainful tone, in his own voice. "We both know gender is no place for rationality."

" _Night Vale_ is no place for rationality," Carlos points out. "And yet here I am."

"And you've survived magnificently." Cecil lifts one finger to trail across Carlos' cheek. They've got that _look_ , that _Perfect and Beautiful Carlos_ look, and it makes Carlos wonder.

"Cecil. When you think about your own body... Are you, um, 'perfect in face and form'?"

"Not even a little," Cecil says, still beaming up at Carlos.

"Okay. I mean—it'd be good if you were, if you thought of yourself that way—and you are, by the way. I think so. But you're, um. You're giving me that look, you know?"

Cecil grins. "The one where I am overcome with how much I love you?"

Carlos blushes. "I think of it as the _Perfect and Beautiful_ look. It just seemed strange for you to be looking at yourself that way."

"I'm not looking at myself," Cecil says. "I'm looking at you. Perfectly imperfect beautiful Carlos. It doesn't matter what skin you're wearing; you are perfect in any form."

"And you're a sap," Carlos says. "You're a beautiful sap." He leans down and kisses them, pulling them tight against him with the hand still resting on their ribs. "You are, too, though, you know," he whispers. "Perfect. In any form."

"Mm." Cecil hums into the kiss, hands rising to Carlos' body as they always do. "Lovely Carlos."

"Lovely Cecil." Carlos rolls to his back, and Cecil follows, sprawling over his chest to continue the kiss. They're warm, slightly sticky from sweat and, in some places, other substances. Carlos' cock—the cock Carlos is borrowing—makes its renewed interest known against Cecil's hip, and Cecil hums and shifts against it.

It feels like... like the sweet drag of Cecil's fingertips over his dick, when they're in their own bodies, but less, and more spread out, and nothing like it at all, actually. Carlos presses up and moans, and nearly moans again at the sound of his own—Cecil's—voice.

"Let me show you," Cecil says, and wraps a hand around him. And that, that feels like—like nothing he can describe, totally familiar and completely new. He'd be embarrassed at the way he can't stop the noises and his back arches and his hands clutch the sheets, if he weren't so _fascinated._

There's an ache, and out of a long-learned reflex he ignores it, focuses on other things, on the dry grip of Cecil's fingers and the way they know exactly what to do. But then Cecil's other hand is touching him, too—fingers curved like a cage over his balls, exerting gentle pressure, while their palm presses up behind, the space Carlos is used to denying the way Cecil denies the existence of mountains. But there's nothing there to deny, there's just pressure and warmth and _pleasure_ , rocking into him in a way he has no corollary for.

"Sss," he says, and moans and whimpers; it takes him three more tries before he manages, " _Cecil_ ," and then only because he grabbed their wrist and they stopped touching him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, I just. I don't want to come yet. There's so much more I want to..."

"We've got all night," Cecil points out, but they let their hands fall away, bending down to kiss him instead. "What else do you want?"

"Fuck, _everything_." Carlos tilts his head up to let Cecil mouth along his jaw. "I don't think we'll have time."

"The highlights, then." Cecil reaches Carlos' earlobe and sucks, and Carlos whines and makes a mental note to return the favor once they're back in their own bodies. "What's on your must-experience list?"

"Isn't it your turn?" Carlos slides a hand up their thigh, lightly, to see if they'll shiver; they do. "What do _you_ want?"

Cecil bites their lip and ducks their head shyly. "I thought maybe... just your fingers? Something that we actually do together."

"I can do that," Carlos says, and then grins, nudging them over onto their back. "If you relax and trust me, I might be able to give you multiples."

" _Multiples_ —what? You can do that?"

"Sometimes. It took a lot of practice to learn." Carlos slides a hand down Cecil's stomach and dips his fingers in where Cecil is wet—and they are _wet_. "Just do your best to relax, and don't hold back with your reactions, okay?"

Cecil's eyes are wide, wider than Carlos has ever seen in his own face. "What is it like?"

"Hopefully, you'll see for yourself soon." Carlos slides his slicked fingertips lightly over Cecil's clit. They sigh, lips parting, rolling their hips up against Carlos' hand. "There, good. Like that, just feel and react. I'll take care of you."

"Carlos..." Their eyes are wide, fixed on Carlos, and he can't bring himself to break that gaze. "Talk to me, tell me..."

"It'll be slow," Carlos says, stroking in accordance: long even gentle slides, dipping back at the bottom of each stroke to keep slick. "When you come, the first orgasm will last a long time, and it'll feel a little muted and distant. The second one will build up underneath it and feel sharper, and you'll want a lot of slick. After that, if it works, it should sort of blur together into a single intense sort of wave-like experience. Afterward you'll feel floaty, maybe a little buzzy." Carlos hesitates, because what he has to say next is not going to enhance the mood, but it's something Cecil should know. "I... sometimes cry. And sometimes that's due to outside emotional factors, but sometimes it just happens. So don't be frightened if it does. I'll be here for you."

" _Carlos_." It sounds like gratitude, like worship, like love. Carlos leans his head down and rests his forehead on Cecil's, and they're too close for him to see details but he can see that their eyes are still on his, and he can feel the tension and the shifting in their body.

"I've got you," he tells them. "I'm here." He thinks they're getting close and slows down, fumbles one-handed for the lube bottle. They're going to need it if this is going to work; natural slick is all well and good but for immediately after, one needs something thicker than the human body produces on its own.

He's had to break eye contact to find it, and when he looks back Cecil's got their head thrown back, eyes shut. "You're beautiful," he says without thinking; it doesn't matter whose face they're wearing, that's Cecil in pleasure and there's nothing in the world more beautiful.

Fuck, the experiments he'd do if he had the time. He doesn't touch his own breasts, doesn't know how the additional stimulus will affect what he's trying to do for Cecil, but if this wasn't his only chance he'd try it. He'd try it with one hand stroking them and one hand fucking them, he'd see if he could replicate the effect with his tongue. If this were Cecil's body—

And then Cecil comes, arching and _keening_ , and Carlos can't pay attention to anything but the way he's touching them, the way they pulse under his hand, the look on their face. He knows this body so well, he's lived in it so long, but it's not the same as feeling the sensations in real time and so he has to rely on _usually when I reach this point_ , has to rely on the memory of how his dick felt on his hand, not how his hand felt on his dick.

He does his best, stroking slow and avoiding the most sharply sensitive places, drizzling lube over his fingers because this is when Cecil will need it most. Their eyes are open again, almost terror-wide, and he drops the bottle against their side and strokes their cheek with his free hand and makes whatever soothing nonsense sounds he can muster.

"I can stop if you need me to," he offers, and Cecil shakes their head so vigorously it almost makes Carlos' hand slip. "Shh, shh, relax, I've got you, I'm here."

They do, _deliberately_ , tension letting go of their shoulders and arms and abdomen while they watch Carlos with eyes drooping half-shut, and it's that letting-go that triggers the second orgasm—Carlos knows, he's felt it before himself, orgasm rushing in to fill where all the _trying_ was before.

At this point, Cecil will feel every touch with the same overstimulated buzzing sensation; Carlos focuses on the shaft of their clit, on steady pressure, on minimizing friction. Their eyes half-focus on him before the third one rolls in, and after that they don't even try anymore—or maybe it's that there is no _between_. Carlos certainly can't tell where one ends and another begins.

His hand is starting to ache when Cecil paws at him, uncoordinated; he knows better than to stop all at once and pull away, but he stops stroking and lets them twitch out the aftermath against his fingers as the tension bleeds out of them.

And then a different sort of tension begins to bleed in, and Carlos scoops them up and cradles them close against his chest. "I've got you," he whispers, stroking a slick hand along their spine, the other tangled deep in their hair, scratching gently at their scalp. "I'm here. You're all right, love, my love, my Cecil; you're okay. I've got you, and I'm not leaving you."

Cecil sobs with abandon, unashamedly. They cling close, arms locked tight around Carlos' ribs, their face pressed into his neck. Carlos pets and soothes as well as he can, knowing that there's nothing to do but wait for it to pass.

And it does, and then Cecil is _giggling_ , straightening up to press their mouth against Carlos'—not even a kiss, just an uncoordinated bump. "Oh, _Carlos_. You have _got_ to teach me how to do that to you."

"It was good?"

"It was shattering. It was _devastating_. I feel decimated, wrung out, empty." They squirm a little, thighs pressed together. "And buzzy, like you said. Oh, Carlos. _Thank you_."

"I'm glad that I could give you something." He strokes over their spine again, and adds, "I'm sorry it was a crying one. Sometimes I can head that off, if I feel it coming early enough, but I didn't know..."

"No," Cecil protests. "No, I'm glad. I hoped it would be. It was beautiful, don't you see? The way you held me and took care of me. And now I know how to comfort you, if it ever comes to that."

"As long as you're happy. You know that's all I care about."

"I _am_." Cecil nuzzles at Carlos' throat, practically purring. "I believe we decided on a turns-based system of exchanging pleasure?"

"You don't have to, Cecil. I know that can be tiring..."

"I'm not tired. Not tired enough to be worth missing this." Their hands trace down Carlos' torso, wrap around his cock where it's gone soft and slowly start bringing it to life again. "Tell me what you want."

"Fuck, Cecil... Your mouth?"

"You don't sound very certain..."

"I want, fuck, _everything_. I want your mouth, and the space between your thighs. I want you inside me, I— _oh_ , you have a _prostate_ , I want to know what that feels like. I want it all, Cecil."

"Mm. Lie back." Cecil spreads him out over the sheets, pins him down and kisses him: slow, languid, burning. They seem to have a plan, and Carlos submits to it.

Cecil shows him their body in kisses and touches: which places are sensitive, which places are not. They lick over a nipple and Carlos barely feels it—and then they _bite_ and the jolt of pleasure-pain is exquisite.

"Fuck, Cecil. Do that, do that again, please."

"As you wish," Cecil murmurs, and does, and Carlos would be making note of relative pressure and exact placement if he could _think_. What a rare and precious opportunity, Cecil showing him what they like, and he wants to carry the knowledge back into his own body and use it.

But Cecil takes him apart, destroys him; there is nothing like the slick wet heat of the inside of their mouth, of being taken deep enough to feel their throat flex around his glans. Cecil's cock is a fistful, a little more, just enough that they can wrap Carlos' hand around it and still lip at the head. It—it's _like_ having his own dick touched, in the sense that strawberry ice cream is _like_ chocolate ice cream: it has all possible descriptors in common, but the difference is undeniable and inexpressible.

Cecil doesn't let him come like this, and the body is frustrated; it twists and whines and tries to follow their mouth. But Carlos is relieved; there's more to feel, more to know, and the body will get what it wants soon enough. Too soon, probably.

In the meantime there's still Cecil's mouth, trailing back over his balls—another sensation he has nothing to compare to—and their hands pushing his legs up, back, spreading him out, spreading him _open_ , and their eyes, watching him over the curve of his weeping erection as their tongue slips, and—and _pushes_.

Carlos whimpers with how easily this body opens up to the intrusion. Cecil opens him up with nothing but spit, and it's _glorious_ , there's no discomfort at all, just a dim slick sort of pleasure, a _please more_. It shouldn't feel this good, Cecil hasn't even angled towards his prostate—

_Oh._

"Cecil—stop, please..."

Cecil pulls back immediately, and Carlos whines at the loss of their fingers inside him. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to come yet, I'm not ready."

Cecil—oh, heavens, the _smirk_ Cecil gives him. "You won't," they reassure him. "You'll feel very, very close, but as long as you keep your hands off, you won't come."

"Fuck _me_ ," Carlos breathes.

He means it metaphorically, but Cecil grins and says, "Gladly," and twists their two fingers back into him. It's, fuck, it's _intense_ , it's nothing at all like it feels in his own body, nothing at all like pressing against his g-spot. For an instant he's convinced that Cecil's wrong, that he's going to come—but it doesn't break, it reaches a plateau and just— _stays_ —just _keeps feeling_ —but Cecil seems to know how much he can take, and eases off just before it's all too much.

"I am going to die," Carlos says, staring at the ceiling. "I'm going to—good lord, if you can feel like _that_ and not come? The actual orgasm is going to kill me."

Cecil laughs and crawls up the length of his body to kiss him. Their weight settles on him, pressing his cock between their bellies; he sighs and shifts, seeking not pleasure but _knowledge._

"Lovely Cecil," he murmurs. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"It's not about deserving," Cecil says. "You never did anything to deserve me, nor did I ever do anything to deserve you. But you _have_ me. We have each other."

"I love you," Carlos says. Being in Cecil's body hasn't given him any of their gift for language, but he can still reliably provoke that warm, slow smile with those three words. 

"I love you, too, Carlos." Cecil says it like a prayer, like worship. "Do you want to come now? I want to make you come. In my thighs, like you said."

"Fuck, yes. Please."

Cecil lifts themself up, reaches down to steady Carlos' cock, and then pauses. "I... I don't know how you do this," they admit. 

"It's okay. Sideways?"

"Mm-hm." They roll off, careful of Carlos' limbs, and arrange themself on their side, facing away. Carlos tucks himself up behind, taking a moment just to hold and touch and stroke them. They sigh and wriggle under the touches. "Your body just never wants to stop, does it?"

"Less that and more that it's really easy to convince it to keep going." Carlos finds the lube, slicks himself up—and oh, that's different; he'd like to experiment with that, if he had the time. "Part your thighs for me a little, love."

Cecil does, and Carlos slicks them with a palmful of lube, taking the time to brush up against their clit, hard again. They shiver, and press their thighs together, rocking against his hand. " _Please_..."

He strokes them, then withdraws his hand and tucks his hips up behind Cecil's, sliding his cock into the slick space between their thighs. It's _exquisite_ , especially when they squeeze and rock backwards, and he slides his arm around their chest and pulls them back against him, pressing his face into their hair.

"This isn't going to take long," he gasps, pushing into that tight heat.

"After all that? I'd expect not." Cecil meets him thrust for thrust, their hand rising to tangle with Carlos', tucked between their breasts. Carlos pants, trying to focus on the sensations and not on the building pleasure, he wants this to last as long as possible, he wants to _remember_ as much as possible: the soft smooth insides of Cecil's thighs, the way they squeeze around him, the rough drag of pubic hair as he slides over their labia. He can't help but imagine it, his cock nudging between their labia and slowly, gently pressing them open—carefully, so carefully, stretching with fingers first, and all the lovely noises Cecil would make...

And suddenly he _wants_ it, just like this: this slick slide, up inside Cecil's body, giving them something only he can give them, only now, only tonight and then never again. He falters, and Cecil keeps moving for another half a thrust before they fall still, too.

"I want to," Carlos whispers, hiding his face in their hair. "I want to, I want to, like this, I want to be inside you, I want to give that to you. You deserve it and you should have it and I _want_ to, Cecil, please. Please let me."

"Carlos," Cecil breathes. "Are you...?"

"I am. I am, I swear, I'm certain." Carlos squeezes them close. "I'll take care of you, I promise. We'll go slow and I'll be careful and if it hurts you we'll stop and try again later. I want to do this for you."

"Do you want to do this for you, though?"

"Oh, Cecil. I'm irrelevant, you've given me so much today already—but _yes_ , I do. I want this."

"And you won't regret it in the morning?"

"The present tense of regret is indecision," Carlos says. "I've decided."

"Okay," Cecil says, and nods. "Tell me what to do."

"Just slide your leg forward, like this... yeah. Are you comfortable?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Okay, good. Good." Carlos strokes up between their thighs, traces back over their labia, and presses a single finger inside. They sigh and arch into it, and they're slippery and loose, and this much at least Carlos has already done so he adds a second finger. "Good?"

"Wonderful, Carlos." They tuck their head down and roll their hips. "It's a very... quiet sort of pleasure. It's good."

"Good." Carlos spreads his fingers, and finds the inside opens readily to whatever pressure he applies; it's just the outside that's tight, clinging around his fingers. He focuses his attentions there, stroking and massaging the opening. It's not clenched muscle he's loosening, it's _skin_ , it's the size of the opening itself.

But it does, slowly, loosen under his attentions, and Cecil's hips shift restlessly. "Carlos..."

"More?"

" _Please_."

So Carlos adds a third finger, and all tucked together they make a neat taper that fits easily inside, up to the second knuckle. Cecil grinds back against it, bracing themself on elbows and knees, and forces it in the rest of the way.

"Cecil!"

"It's okay," Cecil pants, trembling with the effort of holding themself up. "Just, fuck me, _move_ , please."

Hesitantly, carefully, Carlos pushes, in, out; Cecil moans. He does it again, sliding almost all the way out. On the third stroke he curls his fingers, and Cecil _whimpers_.

"Okay?"

" _Okay_ ," Cecil pants. "I'm ready, I'm ready—you're not as big around as three fingers, I'll be fine."

So Carlos withdraws his hand, and strokes his cock once to make sure he's still slick (he _is_ still hard, he doesn't have to check that), then tucks himself up behind Cecil, lines up, and _presses_.

Slowly.

Cecil takes several gasping breaths before he's finished, and he'd stop and check on them if not for the way they're pushing back, if not for the little wriggle they give once he's fully seated. It's that wriggle that sets Carlos off—he hadn't even been paying attention to the sensations, other than to guess how deeply he was buried. He's been paying attention to Cecil instead. But that little motion surprises him, breaks through his focus, and demands he pay attention to how hot Cecil is, how tight, how slick and _yielding_.

He clings for a moment, one arm under Cecil's neck and across their chest, the other tight around their hips. "I love you," he pants into their hair, then noses the hair aside and says it directly into their ear: "I _love_ you. I'm not gonna last long."

"Good. Don't. Carlos—touch me, please."

They're trembling. Carlos holds them tight with his left arm and finds their clit with his right, dips back for some slick and feels himself, thick and hot, disappearing into their body. He can't keep from moving any longer, though he goes slowly, stroking their clit in counterpoint, trying to hold of his own orgasm until they come.

He can't; they're so tight, and it's all so new and he's so wound up. He spills himself inside, hips still moving on their own as he rides out the twitching pulses. "I'm sorry," he pants. "I tried."

"Don't be. Touch me. I'm almost there..." Cecil reaches back and grabs Carlos' hip, keeps him from pulling away. They grind back on his softening erection as Carlos strokes in the best rhythm he knows, and then Cecil is clamping down and _rippling_ around him, pulling belated aftershocks from his body.

They lie there together, panting, for a long time. Carlos buries his face in Cecil's hair and squeezes them tight, feels the heaving of their chest, out of sync with his own. Eventually his cock slips free of them with a _squelch_ and a little gush of warm fluid.

"Well, that's an interesting sensation," Cecil says, and Carlos can just see the way they wrinkle their nose—except he sees it on their own face. "I think I'm going to go shower."

"I'll come with you?"

"I'd be delighted." Cecil rolls and stands, swiping a finger through the mess on their thighs and putting it in their mouth. "Oh, _ugh_."

Carlos laughs and follows them into the bathroom. "That's mostly the lube you're finding utterly disgusting," he explains. "Semen's not so bad. Just a little sticky."

"Good to know. I'd hate to think you were swallowing out of some sense of obligation." Cecil crouches in the tub and fiddles with the taps; the shower sputters to life, and they startle under the first cold splash.

"Should've let it warm up first," Carlos says mildly, stepping in behind them and reaching up to undo his plaited hair. Cecil turns to help him, their arms winding warm around his neck as they press against him, chest-to-chest.

Later, their hands working lather into Carlos' hair, Cecil thoughtfully says, "Carlos?"

"Mm?"

"Would you want to keep that body?"

Carlos shrugs. "It's not like I have that choice."

"If you did, though. Would you want to?"

They seem serious about the question, so Carlos takes a moment to actually consider it. He's got to admit, he likes the dick: its constant presence, the size and weight of it in his palm. And, fuck, the way it feels...

But it's still Cecil's. All of it—the hair and the face and the broad torso with its flat chest. And he looks down at Cecil and sees his own face looking back, and it's just... "No. It's okay for a day, but I'm glad it's only that long. Maybe I'd get used to it, but... it'd be just too _weird_ if it were permanent."

Not to mention all the work he's done over his lifetime learning to be okay with his own body. He's _not_ okay with it, and he thinks he never will be... but it's still his, and he may never be okay with it but he loves it and takes care of it all the same.

Cecil blows out a breath. "Okay. That's good. I was feeling pretty undecided about it, so I'm glad you have a strong opinion. We'll do that, then."

"Cecil." Carlos turns, catching his half-washed hair in the spray and not caring. "Are you saying that that's an _option_? That we could make this permanent?"

"Yeees?" Cecil gives him that look that means _of course that's possible_. "We just have to file the appropriate forms with City Council before the change back happens."

"Okay," Carlos says, meaning that it isn't okay... but it is, really. It's not like he'd have made a different decision had he known. "Okay," he says again, and means it. 

"So you don't want to." Cecil uncaps their conditioner and nudges Carlos to turn around.

Carlos does, and tilts his head back so they can reach to his scalp. "I don't. I just... My body is more than my genitals. And I haven't stopped trying to be okay with my genitals, either. You're okay with that?"

"I wouldn't want to strand you in my body," Cecil says wryly, their hands slipping down to Carlos' hips and squeezing gently before returning to his hair. "On that note, you should take a couple more painkillers before bed."

"Oh—I hadn't even considered that." Carlos hums with the sensation of their fingers on his scalp: familiar and different at the same time. "Maybe we should."

"Carlos! _No_." Cecil's hands fall still, fall away. "That's not something you should do for me. That's—I don't _want_ you to do that for me."

"I would, though. I would in a _heartbeat_ , Cecil. If I could take your pain away—"

"It's not for you to bear," Cecil insists. "You are allowed to alleviate my suffering with science, _not_ with heroic self-sacrifice. And it certainly shouldn't be your primary reason for permanently binding yourself into a body."

Carlos sighs: regret, acquiescence. Cecil is right. "Science isn't good enough yet. And I'm not a medical researcher. I don't think I can help on this one. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fight," they remind him, but gently.

 _You're wrong,_ Carlos thinks. _I love you. Your fights are my fights._ But he knows they already know this, just as well as he knows that they will pick up his burdens just as eagerly. As well as he knows that some battles, by their very nature, are fought alone.

(Cecil's dysphoria is intermittent but intense. They wouldn't stop feeling it in Carlos' body; they'd just feel it at different times, possibly compounded by the face not being their face, the hands not being their hands, et cetera. And yet they offered, for Carlos' sake.)

So he says nothing, and tilts his head back; and Cecil's hands return to his hair, gentle, caressing. There is nothing else that needs to be said, not now, not yet.

They rinse, and pat each other dry, and Carlos pads naked into the kitchen to find the painkillers while Cecil finds out just why no one but Carlos brushes Carlos' hair. Then Carlos sits on the edge of the bed, Cecil kneeling in front of him, and carefully works the tangles out of the mass of curls.

"Don't let this make you think you can't pull my hair while we're fucking," Carlos tells them. "There's a huge difference between pulling a little chunk and pulling a fistful."

"Ow," they answer. "Pain receptors are inconvenient."

"Pain receptors exist to tell us to avoid things that hurt us," Carlos says. "Though I agree, my scalp has an inconvenient number of them. There, I'm done. Switch places so you can do my plait?"

"Stay where you are, I'll just get on the bed behind you."

 

Hair done, they go to sleep lying next to each other. Carlos stays awake for a long time, wondering how the view from the other side of this same bed he sleeps in every night can look so different.

"Cecil," he whispers into the dark.

"Mm?"

"What happens if we're awake when the time runs out and we switch back?"

"You don't want to be awake," Cecil mumbles. "I'm sure we have some drugs..."

"No, I'll be fine. I'll sleep." Carlos runs one of his broad hands up and down Cecil's side, careful not to let them feel like he's restraining them. "I love you."

"I love you, Carlos. Sleep."

Carlos sleeps.

 

When he wakes up, his boyfriend is wrapped around his back, their morning wood snugged up against his hip. He waits, and before too long Cecil hums and stretches—arms up, toes down—and presses their face into his hair.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, snuggling back against their broad chest. He missed this.

"Remade," Cecil murmurs into his neck.

"Me, too," Carlos answers, laughing. "Me, too."

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed the in-text link: [Safe as Houses by Driftless Pony Club](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAXDtJu3drg)
> 
> (it's not the weather, though, it's just a song that I _shouldn't have named this fic after_ because now it plays in my head _endlessly_ )


End file.
